There will be vulgarity.

adult

Today I went down to our local community college and turned in a transcript request form in order to determine which classes will transfer, and which ones are incredibly useless in any and all areas of my personal or professional life. (Oh, HAI BILLIARDS “P.E.” CREDIT!)

As an adult student who will be surrounded by people I technically could have parented, I’m understandably a little self conscious about my triumphant return to the wonderful world of education.

Up until I turned in the form, everything was going just swell. I looked around me and convinced myself “I don’t look *that* much older than everyone else!” I mean, I’m obviously no spring chicken at this stage in the game, but I’m not exactly screaming at school children whilst angrily waving a cane to get off my lawn, either. I looked up at the line of available clerks, and purposely selected an amiable young man to hand in my required paperwork.

Imagine my horror when the young man takes my documents, looks up, smiles, and instead of addressing me with my preferred formality of “smoking hot youthful piece of ass I’ll be thinking about later”, he calls me the most hateful, derogatory term anyone could ever use to describe a woman: “ma’am.”

Ma’am.

MA’AM!

Stunned, I retreated from the building into my vehicle. I sat there for a moment wondering when I had crossed that line into ma’amdom. Frantically texting friends and relaying the horrors of the day on Facebook, I briefly considered marching back in there, flashing my tits and screaming “MA’AM?? DO THESE LOOK LIKE MA’AM BOOBS TO YOU? YOU SHOULD KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WERE JUST WEANED FROM A SET!” Whippersnapper.

Things just got worse from there as I flipped down my mirror visor. Far removed from the soft, dim glow of my bathroom lighting, I examined myself thoroughly in the devil’s mistress otherwise known as “natural light.”

Holy shit. That little fucker was right.

I am a ma’am. A ma’am I am. I do not want to be a ma’am. I do not want that on my cans. I do not want it on my face, I do not want ma’am any place!

Sulking, I drove back home to the safe recesses of the home I keep as dimly lit as a seedy strip club. Spent a few minutes adjusting my boobs to circa 2003 levels and digging around for the Oil of Olay anti aging serum like a heroin addict who misplaced their syringe. I then thought about all the husband upgrading I need to get on if I’m going to be able to collect all that sweet, sweet alimony to pay for my extensive plastic surgery.

Then I remembered something very important: I don’t care.

I’m not sure why I had such a visceral reaction to the “ma’am”. I’m not in denial about it. I’m getting older, which is a privilege not afforded to everyone. This is the same sort of bullshit I wasted my youth on worrying about how fat I was instead of just enjoying the moment. And just as I look back at my “fat” pictures from my 20s wondering when I was ever so slim, I will hopefully live long enough to one day look back on my 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s pictures wondering when I was ever so young.

Until then, I’ll keep my ma’ammaries tucked safely away, safe from traumatizing the 20 year old community college clerks who offend old ladies with respectful language.